


(i love you) for sentimental reasons

by spacenarwhal



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Sexual Situations, Dancing, F/M, First Time, Post-War, Virgin Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4695617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re beautiful.” He says, and this is what’s always been so dangerous about him, Peggy thinks, reaching up to touch his face. This earnestness with which he says things. Everything sounds like an oath. “You’ve already gotten me upstairs Captain Rogers,” she jokes, unsure of how else to respond. Steve turns his cheek into her hand, eyes drifting closed, “Well maybe I’m trying to make sure I get to keep you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	(i love you) for sentimental reasons

He ruins her stockings.

 

They had been a gift from Howard and as much Peggy had been reluctant to accept anything from a man as ethically dubious and outright lecherous as Howard Stark, it had been years since she had been able to wear a decent pair of stockings. Not since before the war, before rations and practicality demanded she relinquish them in favor of supplying nylon to the war effort. And she wouldn’t have worn them at all, she thinks, except that the occasion demanded more than the cheap cotton stockings that perpetually sagged about her knees no matter how securely she fastened them. Those would have never lasted a dance, not even ones as carefully paced as theirs had been throughout the night (off the battlefield he’s not a graceful man, lumbering and unsure of what to do with his still-new frame. His eyes had strayed to their feet as often as they’d fixed on her face, mindful of her feet for fear of stepping on them. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your shoes.” He’d said, grin shy of bashful and face warming a timid shade of pink that made it hard to believe only a week ago he’d been leading troops on the outskirts of Poland).

 

Steve fumbles over his apologies, hands withdrawing from her leg as though it burned to the touch and Peggy bites down an overly fond sigh as she sits up, pulls the stocking off from where he’s left if bunched about her ankle. The materials slippery to the touch, airy and light and soft like only good silk can be and there’s not a doubt in her mind that Howard hasn’t forgone a single luxury during these turbulent years, and she feels a small bit guilt for having worn these at all. Not because the cotton wouldn’t have snagged half so easily at the slightest pull of Steve’s calloused fingertips—hadn’t she rolled them on so delicately hours earlier? Careful not to let them catch on her own cracked hands—but because at the very least those had been purchased with her own money.

 

Now, however, is hardly the time for ruminating on the morality of accepting gifts from questionable individuals so Peggy casts the stocking to the floor and sets about unfastening the other one before Steve can apologize himself into a guilt-ridden frenzy. “It’s quite alright.” She smiles (her lipstick is smeared across his mouth, shockingly red and she does her best not to think of blood or bullets or bomb-leveled cities where people once lived and worked and danced).

 

“I’m really sorry Peggy, I’ll get you new ones I promise—” He’s Captain America, he could probably get her more than a single pair of silk stockings, but right now all she wants is his hand back on her leg like it was before. She tells him as much.

 

“That I can do.” He grins, still red-eared and apologetic, but his palm is warm high up on her knee, and his fingers curve around to touch her thigh, move just enough to barely stroke the skin they find there. “You’re beautiful.” He says, and this is what’s always been so dangerous about him, Peggy thinks, reaching up to touch his face. This earnestness with which he says things. Everything sounds like an oath. “You’ve already gotten me upstairs Captain Rogers,” she jokes, unsure of how else to respond. Steve turns his cheek into her hand, eyes drifting closed, “Well maybe I’m trying to make sure I get to keep you.” He says softly, like he’s not sure if it’s the right thing to say, and Peggy leans forward against her own knees to kiss him.

 

A year ago she couldn’t have imagined a day the war might be over, for so long it feels like it's all she’s had to think about, even before she enlisted, before she was sent over to assist the Americans in their own war efforts. But now she’s here, a tiny Brooklyn apartment blocks away from a club that was still in full swing when they’d retired and every day someone new and authoritative speaks on the wireless about treaty negotiations and ceasefires. There’s a whole world ahead of her and she doesn’t know what she’ll do with it (doesn’t entirely know what it’ll let her do), and it terrifies her more than she’ll ever admit. Steve must feel it too, the uncertainty of this precipice they stand on, kisses her like he did that day in the hangar, mouth urgent and tempestuous against hers. Whatever lies ahead, he understands the fear that it might not be entirely his no matter how hard he's worked for it.

 

She draws a ragged breath, desire a dull and familiar ache she’s carried with her wordlessly. There have been men before Steve. Peggy’s made no secret of it. But whatever this has been between them, this comradery and respect and affection, it’s been building since before he was what he’s become, the weight of its importance growing inside of her until she wondered that she could carry it all. If she were more inclined towards melodramatics she would liken it to a wound left untreated, or a bruise, purpling and sore to the touch. What she wants now, with a desperation that startles her with its single-minded clarity, is to touch him. (She can’t remember now if she ever imagined him before, when he was a slight thing, small and easily underestimated anyone fool enough to do so, because his eyes have never changed and his mouth is still the same kind slant that’s quick to bite off a retort when it’s least wise to do so.) Her heart beats harder inside her chest when his hand travels higher, her skirt falling away before it as though inviting him closer. Her hands clutch at his shoulders through shirt he’s still wearing for some entirely unfathomable reason, surely, and she begins to lie back on the too-narrow bed, still holding on, insistent until he understands and follows suit. He’s heavy, almost too warm over her, but Peggy likes it, enjoys the reassuring weight of him pressing her into the mattress. They kiss and kiss and kiss until her mouth is sore, a blood buzzing close to the surface of her skin.

 

Undressing continues to prove a daunting experiment of trial and error. Her fingers tangle in his tie, one of his buttons comes loose when she pulls the front of his shirt open without properly undoing it first. He laughs when she curses the tiny seedling buttons on the front of her dress that make her miss the no-fuss nature of her uniform. “Don’t go on like that Peg, you look great.” She hazards to guess she does not in fact look great now no matter how well the night started, with her lipstick everywhere but where it ought to be and her make up smudged from the humid air of the dance hall and her hair falling out of its pins, she probably looks like a certifiable disaster. But he’s grinning at her with a teasing sort of look, like he’s amused by her inability to conquer buttons, and Peggy doesn’t quite know whether to reward him with another kiss or pinch him. She kisses him. Though it is a very close call for a moment.

 

When the blasted buttons finally come free she slips out from under him and stands, drapes her dress over the back of a solitary chair so that it won’t be a complete disaster of creases when she has to wear it out tomorrow. Her slip she lets pool on the floor without a second thought. He goes quiet for a second when she’s stripped down to her brassiere and underwear and she makes sure to catch his eye when she reaches back to unfasten it. The blush from earlier is spreading now, trailing down his chest like a spill, and she very much likes the look of it, lets the garment fall down her arms. He reaches out for her then, hands gentle on her waste, brings her to a standstill between his knees where he’s once more sitting on the edge of the bed. He looks up at her like he hasn’t had to since they first met, and Peggy runs her fingers through his golden hair, disheveled out of its neatness by her hands. His hands travel up her sides, over her back, touch so light it’s enough to make her shiver, and he leans forward, lips warm against the bottom of her ribcage where they land. (His hands had shaken earlier, back in the dance hall, when she’d taken his hand in hers and asked him to dance.)

 

 

“That day we went after Schmidt—” He starts, and his voice trembles over her skin as his shoulders lose some of the steadiness she’s come to depend on, “What if, if I'd—” She drops a kiss against the crown of his head, his mouth brushes the top of her left breast, and she thinks he must be able to feel her heart thundering beneath it. “But you didn’t.” She says, swallowing against the sudden tightness in her throat at the thought of what could have been. (Because he would have done it, she knows he would have, there’s not a doubt in her aching heart that Steve Rogers would have flown that plane into the ocean if it had meant saving all the rest of them and she thinks it’s enough of a reason to love him, though there are reasons aplenty and she’ll gladly spend the rest of her life discovering them all so long as he’s here.)

 

“Peggy—” She ducks then, kisses him silent, pulls away only to say, “I’ve spent far too long looking for the right partner to go looking for another one now Steve.” On her back, his hands his are steady.

 

It might be the additional emotional maelstrom makes the physical aspects of what they’re doing easier to navigate, either a distraction or a reinforcement that this is what they both want, but it feels less fraught afterward, less like the next mishap will put an end to everything. He still asks her permission before removing her underwear and she laughs, delighted, when she discovers he’s ticklish behind his left knee while helping him remove his trousers. “Well it’s a good thing Hydra never got their hands on that particular piece of intel. Might have turned the entire war around” She giggles, and Steve’s smirk turns calculating moments before he yanks her off-kilter and onto his lap. His now very naked lap. She keeps laughing until he realizes that it takes very little pressure from his thumb over her nipple to make her gasp, and even less from his tongue to make she squirm. She pulls on his hair harder than she means to when he stops but he happily lets her direct him back to the task at hand, stopping only to switch to the other, “Wouldn’t want anyone to feel left out.” he mumbles moments before his mouth descends on her right breast and Peggy really does pinch him then. When Steve snorts it does interesting things against her skin.

 

He’s hard against her thigh and she entertains the logistics of the evening briefly before deciding this position will work before for them. “I’m following your lead here Peg.” He says when she tells him as much, mouth stained a shade lighter now that he’s a left an impression of kisses all very her chest. “You’ll, um, tell me if there’s anything I can do—” His eyes fix on hers, startling blue and beautiful and the same eyes that have never been afraid to meet her head on, “I wanna make sure you feel good too.”

 

“I will,” she says, because she’s never been one to deflect. “Here,” she says, guiding his hand between her legs where she’s warm and slick and ready, “Touch me here.” His fingers are nervous against her skin but he does what she says, listens to her directions when she tells him to pivot his thumb against her. He’s not a quick study, but he’s a dedicated pupil, a curious one too, keen to figure out what earns a sharp inhale and how best to make her say his name in a low-pitched voice. “Like that,” she whispers, breath coming in in close-paced inhales, “Just like that darling.” It’s not exactly a surprise, how different this is from when she does it herself, alone in her bed, usually on her back with her legs spread wider, feet firmly planted on the mattress. Regardless, she feels slightly off-balanced here, perched over his lap with her knees on either side of him, where each restless shift of her hips against his hand feels like enough to send her sprawling even with her hands clutching at his shoulders. He touches her hair, sucks a kiss onto the underside of her jaw when she lets her head tilt to the side, and he increases the pressure a fragment more than before, his finger stroking at a slightly quicker rhythm than she could sustain before her hand would begin to cramp. “Like that?” he asks, voice rough against her throat and his thumb twitches just so against her and she feels as though she’s burning, there in his lap, her hips jerking forward as the bright, tense heat of it all condenses into a single blazing point that then explodes, sends shockwaves of pleasure through every nerve in her body.

 

Afterward she can feel the sweat that’s gathered at her hairline and along her back, and when he touches her thigh she can feel the slickness on his fingers, slippery against her skin. She leans her forehead against his shoulder and breathes deeply, body buzzing with minute aftershocks. “Yes,” she finally manages after what feels like hours, still hanging mostly on Steve and reliant on his hands on her body to keep from toppling over. “Yes, like that.” The smile he gives her then is nothing short of dazzling, even if there's a touch of smugness at the corner of it. Well, Peggy still has plenty more to teach him before the night's come to it's close.

 

When she can move without feeling like her legs have been rendered rubber that’ll give way at a moment’s notice, she gets off him long enough to fetch the condom from the dresser drawer where he keeps them. None of them have Captain America’s face on them which is something of a disappointment, though she cheerfully informs him the U.S. government put his face on a large quantity of the prophylactics included in care packages for the soldiers. Steve could probably light a New York City block he’s blushing so hard, but it’s hard to say if it’s embarrassment or arousal at this point in the proceedings. A little of both maybe.

 

“Pretty sure there’s a poster warning against the clap with my face on it ruining someone’s night somewhere.” He chirps, taking the condom from her and rolling it on with a look of utmost concentration on his face. When he's ready she asks him to lay back for her across the foot of the bed, resumes her previous position with her hands on his chest. She takes him in hand to lower herself onto him, leads with her hips and shifts, moves, closer, closer, closer. The sound he makes as she does so is like something out of war zone, desperate and brutal. His hands squeeze at her hips, the mattress squeaks beneath them when she rocks forward and falls back.

 

When he says her name his voice is choked and she half expects his eyes to slip shut, but he stares doggedly up at her like the stubborn idiot she knows him to be, like he’s never going to let her out of his sight again.

 

He’s true to his word, lets her lead, lets her set the pace and find her rhythm as she moves over him, again and again until she feels something not-quite centered, something just a little too broken to be salvaged but worth keeping regardless. “Steve.” She says and her voice is a moan, overwhelmed with the fullness of him, the heat of him between her thighs and his hands on her hips and his eyes on her face. Steve everywhere but most importantly, Steve here, with her. His hands tighten and his hips shift back against the mattress like he’s trying to keep still, his mouth twists as though it’s the hardest battle he’s ever fought. Which is ridiculous, Peggy thinks, this isn’t a battle. The battles are done for now. This is a dance, hers and Steve's, so she takes his hand off her waist and brings it up to her breast, lets his hand cup the fullness of it, leans forward because she knows he won’t let her fall, moves with greater confidence when she says, “It’s okay, you’re okay darling, I have you.” And his hips move beneath hers, against hers, with hers, movements short and quick and his breathing goes tattered seconds before both his hands go back to her waist, stilling her movements while he falls to pieces.

 

His grip hasn’t slackened much despite the orgasm, but she manages to lever herself up and off him. He’s still half-hard and she wonders what exactly the limits of Dr. Erskine’s serum were, but that’s as far as she gets before Steve is pulling her down against him. She never exactly forgets what he’s capable of, is fully aware of his skills and talents as a scientifically enhanced solider, though she certainly doesn’t expect anything as paltry as demonstrations of brute force from him. And yet without fail his gentleness startles her. The care with which he strokes her back, plucks the last remaining pins from her hair, touches her face as though it were the most delicate thing he’s ever handled. She jumps a little when he reaches between them, whimpers when his fingers return to their earlier work, and it doesn't take her long to feel the familiar spread of warmth throughout her body, even if it laps at her gentler than before. Peggy’s spent years shedding any need or preference for delicacy, the world’s required her to grow up with an appreciation for practicality and endurance. But there’s no condescension in Steve’s care, nothing patronizing or belittling in being admired by him. He’s never tried to place her on a pedestal and expected her to say there. It makes it easier to accept moments like these, and she thinks that one day, without enough practice, she won’t be nearly as caught off guard when they come.

 

Steve hums, a sleepy content sound, and Peggy should poke him awake so they can dispose of the condom, and they’ll have to rearrange themselves into a better position, one that doesn’t have his legs dangling off the bed at the very least. But his arms are lovely around her and his chest rises and falls under her cheek.

 

“Remind me,” she says, and Steve makes a soft sound at the back of his throat that she takes as an affirmative, “To give you a real picture.”

 

Steve’s laughter rumbles under her ear, quiet as it is in the silence of the room, “Since you know my secret maybe we ought to take one together.”

 

Peggy smiles against his skin, presses a kiss over where his heart lives. “Very well then.” Neither of them moves.

 

With the future looming so bright and blinding ahead of them, what’s a few more moments just for themselves.

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This story is in honor of tumblr post http://fuckyeah-nerdery.tumblr.com/post/125309916735/i-cry-sometimes-because-peggy-never-got-the-chance, which reads: "I cry sometimes because Peggy never got the chance to mount Steve and ride him into the sunset". Me too friend, me too. 
> 
> In all honesty I was just over come with the usual three o'clock bout of Peggy/Steve feelings and curiosity about Peggy's stockings somehow resulted in this. Fun fact: the US gov't did have a safe sex campaign during WWII, one of the slogans used was "Don't forget - put it on before you put it in." I enjoy imagining Captain America being used to promote such important safe sex messages.
> 
> The title is from the song (I love you) For Sentimental Reasons, performed most famously perhaps by Nat King Cole.


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